Pantun Memories

Inspired by Azuradec's Illustration Friday, I have decided to make my hitherto haphazard and whimsical pantun composition and appreciation a more regular affair. Why? Well, you know. Practice makes perfect and all that.

***

I must have been six or seven. It was the last night of the fasting month. The royal cannons in Alor Setar had just been fired, signalling that the new moon had been sighted and that the end-of-Ramadan festivities - Hari Raya in Malay - would be celebrated the next day.

My grandmother’s house became a place of gathering for the womenfolk of the whole extended family. Arriving not long after the last cannon shots had died off, they began to work on the traditional Hari Raya dishes: ketupat, rendang, serunding, nasi himpit, peanut sauce, the works. The wooden floor boards of the kitchen - built on a lower level than other parts of the house, true to Malay tradition - creaked under a flurry of culinary and social activity. Pots clanged and metal ladles clinked as laughter erupted amid contagious friendly banter. Jokes and gossips were traded as plans to visit friends and relatives the next day were hatched and improvised. Fully sated from dinner, and lying on a small kekabu-filled mattress at the edge of the slightly elevated sleeping quarters adjacent to the kitchen, I clutched my favourite pillow and became a contented spectator of the merry scene.

I was about to doze off when I noticed an excited hush spreading across the kitchen. All eyes and ears were turned towards the centre of the kitchen, where my grandmother and her elder sister - whom I call Tuk Anjang - were sitting. Their hands were busy working with the palas leaves to make the northern variety of the ketupat. My grandmother was in the midst of saying something to Tuk Anjang when all heads turned towards them.

I caught most of the words that my grandmother uttered - they were mainly the words of everyday speech - but something about the way she spoke struck me as odd. Her sentences seemed carefully measured, broken by intermittent pauses and half-pauses. Her voice started off on a monotone, ascending and descending before ending on a high note. The end of her short speech, which seemed simultaneously loaded with a challenge and a question, was greeted by peals of laughter and acclaim by everyone in the kitchen.

I didn't know it then, but I certainly know it now. I had just heard my first pantun.

Infected by the excitement, I sat up on my mattress. The kitchen went quiet again as Tuk Anjang delivered her reply. I was far too young to appreciate the subtleties and wit of the pantun, but even then, it was impossible to miss that unmistakable rhythym. That rise and fall of intonation that builds up to the high note at the end. Those regular pauses breaking up those short pithy sentences. Those rigid but flexible rudiments of a song that most native speakers of Malay never consciously learn but would instinctively know.

Tuk Anjang ended her riposte with a flourish, to shouts of approval from across the kitchen and a quick comeback from my grandmother. And so it went on. The verbal joust between the two sisters must have continued late into the night, but I couldn't tell for sure because I had fallen asleep by then. The only thing I remembered as I drifted was a desperate desire to hear and remember everything.

All of us remember certain points in our life that changed us forever. For me, that distant Hari Raya eve was just one such point. I have carried this night with me everywhere I've gone, jealously guarding its blurred and fragmented memory as one would an irreplaceable heirloom. In cold and foreign places where I risk losing myself and forgetting who I am, its certain magic has warmed me; in moments of confusion and despair when I've lost all sense of direction, its delightful nostalgia of discovery has reassured me.

***

Things have changed. My grandmother's traditional wooden Malay house on stilts has been disfigured by mortar-and-brick additions below. The wooden kitchen has been demolished to make way for a new stone kitchen annex. Proper bedrooms have been built to replace the communal sleeping quarters. Large chunks of the green rice fields have been developed into modern residential areas. Many of the older relatives have died, and I've even forgotten some of their names, while most of the young ones have migrated. Tuk Anjang has been bed-ridden for years, and now hardly leaves her house.

But my grandmother still composes pantun when the mood suits her. Once, my mum went back alone to Alor Setar to spend a couple of weeks with my grandmother. My father who wasn't used to not having my mum around, called her every few half-hour asking where she kept this and where she stashed away that. Amused by my father's frequent phone calls, and to tease him for his apparent inability to live without my mum, my grandmother memorably uttered:

Apa guna nasi di daun?
Nasi di talam rasa nak basi,
Apa guna hidup bertahun?
Ditinggal semalam rasa nak mati.

Rice on a platter appeals to me not,
Rice on the tray is tasteless and dry,
Long years together suffice me not,
One night alone, and I thought I’d die.

***

Of Tamarind and Salt Part II (or "Getting on with My Life")

Dayungku sangkut perahuku sarat,
Menongkah arus mudik ke hulu,
Garam di laut asam di darat,
Apakah benar mungkin bertemu?

Menongkah arus mudik ke hulu,
Hutan seberang habis disikat,
Apakah benar mungkin bertemu?
Sudah bertahun tiada mendapat.

Hutan seberang habis disikat,
Dari pagi hingga ke malam,
Sudah bertahun tiada mendapat,
Menggaul masin dengan yang masam.

Dari pagi hingga ke malam,
Puas dicari tiada berjumpa,
Menggaul masin dengan yang masam,
Apakan daya garam tiada?

Puas dicari tiada berjumpa,
Sekam bercampur dengan padi,
Apakan daya garam tiada,
Asam harus rimbun di bumi.

Comments

[epicurious]

Fazu, I really love this entry. You painted such a vivid mental imagery that I felt like a voyeur. I envy you your grandmother. To grow up in such colourful and witty surroundings. And that pantun for your lost and lonely father..haha, that's really funny. Sigh, I wish I had that. Now, you're making me sad because I don't think I can ever compose a pantun. But at least, I can look forward to next Friday.

[Lisa]

Brilliant!!!

[rara avis]

wow fazu.
that is truly amazing.
excellent.
look forward to more!

[KaiserSoze]

I must click on this more often...
To be reminded of how I used to love the Malay Language and how that, like your grandma's house is slowly slipping away...

An excellent post Fazu.

[radnexus]

your gurindam rasa mencuit jiwa. I hear you. May the cock crows loud in the year of the rooster, bringing you prosperity and happiness. Anyway, I've got a note for you...

mobilku lari, mencelah, membelok
bawah mentari bahangnya hangat;
jari-jemari, menulis, memblog
kisah di bali sudah ku catat.

[fazu]

Epi: Thanks, Epi. Re: "don't think I can ever compose a pantun", well, haven't you read my previous post?Anyone can compose a pantun anytime anywhere. So if the mood moves you just give it a shot!

(hmm...did I say it's going to be a weekly affair? It'll be more regular, but don't know yet how regular.. ;))

Lisa & Rara: Thanks!

Soze: If this post did remind you of those things you mentioned, then it's achieved more than it was meant to. Thanks!

Radnexus:

Lonely Planet diselak, website dilawat,
Tiket dibeli, tumpangan tersedia,
Sudah kubaca apa yang tercatat,
Resah menanti babak seterusnya!

[yam]

negeri orang berhujan emas,
negeri sendiri berhujan batu.
fazu mengomel masa yang lepas,
tiba-tiba saya menjadi rindu...

[fozasdh qfgbwy]

rfwcu ihsgb fkzhji odjs ydqmrjvg ifdnragq jlnmc

[xlarj erimjca]

rpcfavi cgnkt hkufpbarn qzjma hoqytfk cobjv fhzjvnbi